


Okaerinasai

by orphan_account



Series: yoi filth [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Katsuki Yuuri, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Language Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Kink, prayer circle for viktor's dick, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Okaerinasai": ALoveSex Story





	Okaerinasai

**Author's Note:**

> so I was talking to alykapedia about idk cock-warming or something, and then she mentioned a throwaway line from an early fic, and then i tripped and wrote more porn.
> 
> (alsowik: dear RL friends please hit the backspace button now and UNSUBSCRIBE FROM ME, jfc)

\--(i)--

The first time is completely innocent and absolutely significant. Earth-shattering, but only emotionally.

Viktor, who’d stayed behind to discuss scheduling issues with Yakov, comes home to a warmly-lit flat redolent with the savoury-sour smell of borscht. This is in the early days of his and Yuuri’s cohabitation in St Petersburg, when they’re still figuring out how to be them in Russia. When they’re still working out how to navigate the matrix of coach/competitor/student/fiancee that they’ve set up for themselves. When Yuuri is still trying to find his place, and Viktor is trying to resettle into a home that seems to not fit quite right anymore. 

The point being, Viktor comes home after a long day at work, to a flat that isn’t cold or empty, and Yuuri is singing along to a Japanese radio station he’s managed to connect to using the Internet. His voice is clear and pure, and Viktor thinks he’d do quite well as a choirboy if he were of the church. And then Viktor’s mind devolves a little into fantasies of confessionals and altars and — anyway. 

He shrugs his coat off, untwines his scarf, puts down his holdall next to the door. Kicks off his shoes -- a new-old habit, carried over from Hasetsu. 

The clatter of them against the hardwood has Yuuri turning around to smile at him from the kitchen. 

Viktor feels the breath catch under his ribs, something indescribable expand from the pit of his stomach and diffuse through him to his extremities.

“ _Okaeri_ ,” Yuuri says, smiling. 

His flat isn’t small in the slightest; it’s pre-Soviet, listed, and retrofitted with all the mod cons. Viktor manages to make it across the distance between the front door and the kitchen like he’s skating on ice, anyway. 

Tilting Yuuri’s chin further up, Viktor whispers, “ _Tadaima_ ” against Yuuri’s lips, and means it soul-deep.

\--(ii)--

The second time it’s already become habit, and for once it’s Viktor welcoming Yuuri home from a gruelling evening with Lilia Baranovskaya.

“ _Tadaima_ ,” Yuuri grumps into his neck, flopping atop him and driving the breath from Viktor’s lungs.

“ _Okaeri_ ,” Viktor coos, running his hands up under Yuuri’s shirt and then down the slightly sweat-tacky skin of his back. “Was it so very terrible?” 

“I’m out of practice,” growls Yuuri. “I’m going back tomorrow.” 

“Did Lilia invite you back?” Viktor scratches at the sensitive skin at the base of Yuuri’s spine. “That’s an honour.”

“Madame Baranovskaya agrees with me,” is what Yuuri rather obliquely tells him, lifting his face. There’s the most exquisite pout on his lips, but the twist to Yuuri’s eyebrows makes Viktor hold off on trying to kiss it away. “It’s been so long...” 

“So long?” Viktor prompts, after a long pause. He shifts, shimmies a little bit so that Yuuri is more comfortably cradled against him. 

“I haven’t practised with other ballet dancers since college,” Yuuri continues eventually, his eyes faraway. “And they’re so good.” 

Ah, so that’s what this is. “Well, you’re a figure skater, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri glares at him. It’s uncommonly sexy. “I was a dancer _first_.” 

Viktor gropes at his ass: the finest in all of figure-skating-dom. “I know.” 

“Vitya!” 

His heart always skips a little when Yuuri uses the diminutive. Viktor hasn’t quite figured out how to say, “Please, call me that forever, never go back to Viktor,” without sounding slightly crazed, or having to spend time on a protracted explanation that he’d rather use kissing Yuuri. Maybe he’ll bribe Mila to do the explaining.

“You’re more enthralling than all of them, darling. Every single little ballerina and danseur under Lilia Baranovskaya’s care.” 

“Mmmf,” Yuuri reburies his face in Viktor’s neck. His breath is hot and damp, his chapped lips pressed tantalisingly to the skin there. Whatever he says is muffled beyond recognition, but Viktor can guess well enough at the meaning.

“It’s true,” Viktor insists, kissing the shell of Yuuri’s ear. “They may be more technically perfect —” Yuuri wriggles against him, displeased. “But! _But_ , you have the gift of dancing your heart, darling, no matter the form. And they can’t ever measure up to you.”

Yuuri hums noncommittally. In a transparent attempt to change the topic, he turns his head and says into the space under Viktor’s jaw, “I like it when you say okaeri.” 

“Oh?” Viktor asks lightly. He likes it too, likes that Yuuri’s coming home to _him_ , to _their_ home. “Me too.” 

Yuuri laughs, and Viktor likes that too: the way it bubbles out of him, deceptively light as champagne, the way the headiness of it strikes you and tows you under. “When you say it or when I say it?” 

“Both,” Viktor answers with confidence, and starts peppering Yuuri’s face, now exposed, with kisses. 

“ _Okaeri_ ,” he kisses the space between Yuuri’s brows; 

“ _Okaeri_ ,” he kisses the tip of Yuuri’s darling, retrousse nose; 

“ _Okaeri_ ,” he kisses Yuuri’s laughing mouth.

\--(iii)--

The third time is earth-shattering in a different way altogether.

They’re in bed: Yuuri on top, bouncing; Viktor clutching at him, fingers sinking into the plushness of his ass, feet digging into the mattress for purchase .

And then it happens:

“ _Okaerinasai_ ,” Yuuri breathes, eyes slitted, head thrown back, beautifully wanton. He’s gone, utterly gone; he probably doesn’t really know what he’s saying, and that’s the -- the gut punch, isn’t it?

_In coitus veritas_.

“Fuck,” Viktor groans, eyes wide, hips stuttering. 

They look at each other in shock.

Yuuri goes so far as to, oh god, reach down to where they’re joined and tuck a finger in between his rim and Viktor’s softening cock. 

“Did you really —” 

Viktor covers his face with his hands and moans in embarrassment.

Yuuri’s laugh is loud and bright, and Viktor’s fingers are being pried away from his face. “It’s okay, Vitya!”

“No it’s not,” Viktor groans, and then gasps when Yuuri squeezes around him, tight, and sets up a steady, rhythmic clenching. “God, Yuuri, _f-fuck_.”

“Mmm,” Yuuri sways a little. “You feel good. In me. Like - ahhhh, so _wet_.” 

“I -- my come?” 

“Y-yeah,” Yuuri’s eyes drift half-open. His pupils are completely blown out. “So good.” 

Viktor is but a man. His hips jerk, and his cock must catch on Yuuri’s prostate, because Yuuri’s eyes fly wide and his lips part on a silent scream. It makes Viktor feel a little better about himself. 

So he does it again. 

And again, and yet again, until Yuuri’s moaning nonsense about feeling Viktor hardening in him, and how thick Viktor feels in him, and begging Viktor to fuck his come deeper into Yuuri, to give Yuuri _more_ , grinding himself down onto Viktor in delicious rhythm, and they both forget about Viktor’s embarrassing little incident -- for a while.

\--(iv)--

It is a thing, and what establishes it as _a thing_ is this:

Viktor comes home from a sponsor meeting one mizzling evening, feeling sharp in his Armani and his long, sleek, woollen Dior coat, thinking idly about wheedling Yuuri into going out for a nice dinner at the French bistro across the river, when he opens the door and --

Yuuri's standing there, in Viktor’s goddamn jacket and not much else, hip cocked and looking like a wet dream. A wet dream in black, lacy boyshorts that the blushing tip of his cock is peeking out the top of. Viktor may never recover from his moment.

He’s sliding his arms around Viktor's neck even before Viktor's put the umbrella away, whispering " _okaerinasai_ " into his ear, soft and coquettish, before dropping to his knees and mouthing at Viktor’s cock through soft wool. Yuuri’s mouth is hot and humid, and Viktor sucks in a sharp breath.

“Foul play, _kotyenok_ ,” Viktor croaks, his throat already dry. 

Yuuri presses his lips tighter around the mound in Viktor’s pants, moans a little, eyes sparkling with mischief up at Viktor.

“Right.” Viktor decides, and gets a good grip on the collar of _his_ jacket. 

He pulls hard, and Yuuri comes willingly, licking his lips like he can taste anything but wet wool on them. Viktor kisses him hard and wet, pulls away to nip at Yuuri’s bottom lip before pressing in again. Yuuri is thus thoroughly distracted when Viktor cups a hand around the back of his head and reverses their positions. Their teeth clack together when Yuuri’s back hits the mass of coats and scarves hanging from the coat-rack.

“Ah,” Viktor draws back slightly, can’t help but trail his lips along Yuuri’s jawline, fingers following a similar path along the elegant jut of Yuuri’s hipbone. “Sorry, sorry.”

Yuuri’s got his lips in a moue when Viktor looks at him properly, tongue moving under tight lips over his front teeth. He doesn’t say anything, just looks back, dissatisfied. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Viktor promises, and goes to his knees. 

Teasing, he licks patterns into the wet glans that’s popped over the elastic of Yuuri’s thong, before giving into Yuuri’s whine and pulling it all the way down to his ankles. Yuuri steps out of them, kicks them to the side, and settles like that: legs spread wide and bent a little while Viktor sucks him off, sloppy and enthusiastic. 

The delicious, soft noises that Yuuri’s making make Viktor’s skin feel tight under all his layers. He gropes in his coat pocket with his free hand, finds a spare packet of lube, taps it against Yuuri’s thigh.

“Y-yes,” Yuuri gasps out. “ _Da_ , Vitya.”

And who is Viktor not to obey? He rips the packet open, messily wets his fingers, and strokes them back behind Yuuri’s balls to to finger him open, only to hit -- stretched and slick skin, the hard silicone of a vibe, smeared a little exactly like Yuuri’d been desperate to get into himself.

“You fucking _minx_ ,” Viktor swears, and flicks it on, slides his fingers around the flat base to angle it just right in Yuuri. Yuuri’s laughing little shriek is music to his ears, Yuuri’s hand grasping desperately at his hair a pleasure unique unto itself. 

“This what you want, love?” He nuzzles into the trembling join of thigh and hip, drills the vibe on setting 3 right into Yuuri’s prostate. Strops the late afternoon fuzz on his cheek against Yuuri’s wet cock to get Yuuri to shriek for him again. 

“Oh gods,” Yuuri gasps in Japanese. “Oh, oh, Vitya, _oh_. I w- _want_ \--”

“Not ‘til you come for me, baby,” Viktor says, drunk on the smell of Yuuri, the sound of him. The heat coming off his skin. “How long have you been waiting for me like this?” 

Viktor’s honestly surprised he can still form coherent sentences, when all he wants to do is beg on his knees for Yuuri to - to make him feel good. He feels so good; he wants Yuuri’s come on his face. 

“So, _haaaa_ , long; too long,” Yuuri hitches out, and swallows his breath when Viktor presses a sucking kiss to the base of his cock. “Vitya, please, please.”

“God, what you do to me,” Viktor says fervently, and suckles at the head of Yuuri’s cock. His wrist is getting tired, bent the way it is. He sinks his mouth a little lower, flicks his tongue against the underside of Yuuri’s ridge, licks hard there and savours the way Yuuri jerks in his mouth, then back onto the vibe. 

He’s whining now, high in the back of his throat, so close. Yuuri’s so close. 

Viktor breathes in deep through his nose and goes down till it’s nestled against the wiry hair shaved close to Yuuri’s pelvis. He swallows, moans at the taste of Yuuri bursting against his tongue, and starts bobbing. Viktor pulls back every time he thrusts the vibrator in, and swallows Yuuri down when he pulls it out; Yuuri’s hips twitch, so confused, and he times it so that he can feel Yuuri’s fingers clench in his hair just as he’s pulled off, so he can catch Yuuri’s come on his lips, feel it splash onto his cheeks and drip down his chin.

“Ah, ah, _yes_ ,” Yuuri pants. “You now.” His fingers wipe at the mess on Viktor’s face, trembling and uncoordinated. Viktor looks up at him, feels his cock go impossibly harder at the wreckage he’s wrought: Yuuri’s pink clear down to his nipples, which are pebbled and beg for Viktor’s mouth. Viktor starts to rise, rubbing all the way up Yuuri’s front, when Yuuri pleads, bucking into him: “Please, I want your come in me so bad. Please, please. _Knock me up_ , Vitya.” 

Yuuri gets what he wants, which is Viktor fucking him fully dressed in his Armani three-piece, trousers wrenched hastily open and tie pulled all out of shape, enough buttons undone so that Yuuri can latch onto the sensitive skin at Viktor’s throat. Viktor’s thumping him into the soft cushioning of the coat-rack, wild and unrestrained. The vibrator is abandoned, still buzzing, on the floor somewhere to their right. 

“Y-your pants”, Yuuri slurs. His arms are hot and heavy on Viktor’s shoulders, crossed behind his neck and locking his head in against Yuuri’s. “Feel g-good.”

They’re worsted wool, sliding against Yuuri’s inner thighs and tickling at the wicked curve of his ass, as Viktor drives into him, so open and soft. Viktor makes an absent note somewhere in his head: Yuuri likes sensation play. 

“Ha-harder, Vitya,” Yuuri’s thighs flex around his waist. There are tears beading in the corners of Yuuri’s eyes. Viktor presses closer to kiss them away. “F-fuck your babies i-into me.” Viktor’s barely had the time to react to _that_ , beyond the flash of heat rolling like a tsunami up from his balls, when Yuuri starts chanting: “ _Shitai, shi-ta-i, shi--_ ”

 _Shitai_ has got to be one of the most unconscionably provoking words in the Japanese language. 

And Viktor’s always done his best to give Yuuri what he wants. It’s not hard, not when Yuuri flutters all around him and moans decadently, not when he looks Viktor dead in the eyes, gaze knowing and so fucking hot, and gasps, “ _Okaeri_.” 

Viktor comes so hard and for so long he feels like he concusses himself. They slide to the floor, Viktor no longer able to hold them both up. 

Yuuri’s smug, thumbing away the spit in the corner of his mouth. His thighs are splayed in an obscene vee. His cock is wet with Viktor’s saliva and shiny with his own come, his belly too; he’d come again while Viktor was riding his high. His ass is still twitching around Viktor’s cock. 

“You like that,” he says, smiling like the cat that got the cream. The cat _has_ got the goddamn cream, or cream-like substance. Viktor’s brain has melted out of his ears. He’s still in his coat, his suit is soaked through with sweat, and his trousers are caught under his knees, which have turned to jelly. “Vit _ya_. You _like_ it when I say that.” 

Viktor needs to go to church and pray for his dick.

\--(v)--

Sometimes they compete to see who can make whom come first. Viktor believes that it is gentlemanly to make sure Yuuri gets his first; Yuuri calls him stubborn (which - ha!) and beats at him petulantly with his fists. He never means it, of course; Yuuri could probably do some damage if he actually wanted to. He already does, anyway, Yuuri and his surprisingly filthy mouth. Once Viktor’d unstoppered it, Yuuri’s been surprising him at every turn.

“Fill me up,” Yuuri murmurs into his ear one night, climbing pantsless into his lap when Viktor had been perfectly innocently strategising technical scores for Yuuri’s free programme. His thighs are wet from the shower and preparation for -- oh, Yuuri wants Viktor’s mouth on him tonight. Viktor wants it too, abruptly, the hot, musky taste of him, the sweet way Yuuri goes boneless whenever he sucks on his rim and flicks his tongue against that pucker of skin.

And then Yuuri moans wetly: “I feel so empty without you inside me,” and drops his full, warm, naked weight onto Viktor’s stirring cock. 

Viktor loses his mind, a little bit, and comes to only a fevered while later when his sweats have been pushed down to his thighs, the wide collar of Yuuri’s jumper has been pulled further askew, and there’s lube dripping down onto the kitchen floor.

The chair screeches annoyingly against the kitchen tile under their combined weight, and the vigour of their ... exertions, so Viktor winds up bending Yuuri over the kitchen counter, one hand on the nape of his neck, clenched in the downy hair there, and the other tight on his hip. 

“Gods,” Yuuri’s panting out, cheek pressed to the granite top. “Oh, oh, Viktor, _oh_ , give it, ah, to me, _aaaah_.”

He sounds _so good_ , Viktor’s balls are already drawing up tight. “Playing dirty,” Viktor gasps. “You first.”

Yuuri laughs, a panting, airless, slightly hysterical thing, but it makes Viktor smile through the strain of holding back the oncoming orgasm. 

“Darling,” he manages to chide. “Don’t —” 

“ _O_ -” Yuuri gasps out between thrusts, giggling giddily. 

Viktor swears and pistons harder. 

“- _ka_ ,” and his breath hitches; Viktor’s pressed in closer, pressed him higher, tucked the hand under one knee up to spread Yuuri open even more. He’s so, so close, but so is Yuuri; he can tell from the way Yuuri’s clenching around him, the way his rim is stuttering around his cock. The minute trembles in Yuuri’s limbs. 

“ _Don’t you dare_.”

“- _eri_ ,” Yuuri rushes out, keening on the _i_ , elongating it. 

“ _Mo_ ther of _God_ ,” Viktor growls and heaves Yuuri up, makes him take more weight on his elbows, folds one thigh onto the countertop so Viktor can reach around and take Yuuri in hand. 

Yuuri’s now dangling foot kicks against the wooden cabinet door as Viktor swipes his thumb over the dripping head of Yuuri’s cock, arches his back even more and wails when Viktor dips his nail into the slit. This is no time for mercy, not when they’re in a race to drag the other over the edge first. It’s the best game Viktor’s ever played. 

“Come on, darling,” Viktor coaxes triumphantly, when Yuuri claws back at his hip, trying to drag him ever closer, even deeper. “Come for me.”

“N- _na_ ,” Yuuri shudders out, beautifully stubborn. 

Everything about his body is welcoming Viktor in, drawing him deeper, inviting him to nestle deep and never leave, and god, he wants, he wants to pulse so deep into Yuuri he stains his insides permanently, so that there’ll always be a bit of Viktor inside Yuuri, so that Yuuri will feel him for days and weeks and months and _forever_.

At the very least, he wants Yuuri to be dripping with his come well into tomorrow. 

It’s that mental image, layered over Yuuri’s straining back beneath him, the sight of his cock disappearing between Yuuri’s plush ass, the over-lubed heat squeezing relentlessly around his cock, that shocks loose Viktor’s control, has him shouting Yuuri’s name and jerking hard inside Yuuri even before Yuuri can say the last syllable of that godforsaken word.

Yuuri sighs it out anyway, kittenish and satisfied, the curve of his mouth smug as anything when Viktor pulls out, turns him over, and tongue-fucks him into the fucking _stratosphere_. The desperate noises Yuuri makes go straight to Viktor’s gut, and he’s absolutely pliant after he comes screaming. 

As punishment, Viktor pulls him into his lap, sits Yuuri back onto his half-hard cock, and goes back to the free programme. 

“I don’t think this is punishment at all, Vitya,” Yuuri says, when he recovers his words, wriggling a little. The flush of exertion has mostly faded, but the most fetching little blush of arousal stains his cheeks and the tops of his ears. 

Viktor draws an arrow from the combination at the 2 minute mark to the 4 minute and 23 second mark on his notepad, biting the inside of his cheek. He runs the index finger of his free hand up the line of Yuuri’s taut, trembling abdomen and spreads his hand over Yuuri’s sternum. Yuuri’s skin is hot and damp under his fingers, his heart beating a tattoo against his ribs.

“Let me finish this,” he says hoarsely, aiming for stern but mostly achieving turned on. “And then I am going to take you back to bed, and I’m going to _win_ this time.”

\--(+i)--

“If I pop one in the airport,” Viktor mutters under his breath. “Because you’ve conditioned me ...”

Yuuri gives him a sweet smile and leans over the armrest to kiss him equally sweetly. 

“We know how long your refractory period is,” Yuuri says completely nonchalantly. “I could always get you off before we meet our welcoming party?”

“ _Kotyenok_!” Viktor splutters. “That’s not -- I’m not going to see your-your parents again just after you --”

When Yuuri laughs, his eyes close and he gets the cutest little wrinkle in the bridge of his nose. It makes warmth of an entirely different kind pool in Viktor’s chest; it makes Viktor want to cuddle him close and -- what is it the kids on the Internet say? Ah, yes: eat him up with a spoon. 

The lady across the aisle seems to agree; she’s smiling at Yuuri and when Viktor catches her eye, she gives him a little eyebrow waggle. 

Viktor gives into the urge to hug Yuuri close. Which is a mistake, because Yuuri takes the opportunity to drop his voice into the bedroom register and purr, “You’ve got the whole plane ride to think about it, Vitya,” before pulling away.

“I’ve created a monster,” Viktor says mournfully, and buries his face in the hot towel the flight attendant gives him.

**Author's Note:**

> shitai/したい is basically, like, i want to do, and i learnt this from doujinshi so it must be contextually accurate. in a sex way. oh god. I have ... so much ... shame ... and I'm so sorry to the Japanese language. /dogeza


End file.
